


Bridge Between Our Hearts

by Skyepilot



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Contests, Cooking, Coulson's Jewish mother headcanon, Daisy is biracial, F/M, Flirting, Hacktivist Daisy, Historians, Jiaying, Journalism, Kissing, Nerd Phil, Politics, Recipes, Revenge, Social Justice, Social Media, Training, Ward is a scumbag in all universes, cook books, mentions of Joey and Mack, orphans in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-28 13:29:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8447722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyepilot/pseuds/Skyepilot
Summary: Cooking AU for pers' birthday.  Brief romcom of a former National Archives employee with a public radio talk show about cooking, the hacktivist he hires, and how their missions of revenge meet and end in love.





	

"Phil, don't lose it here. You don't even have a _fan_ YouTube channel. This is not how you want to break into social media."

He stares back, focusing on her words over the roar of the street traffic.

"I'm willing to dive right in," he begins, raising his voice above the din. "Start talking about how being young and connected covers over a multitude of sins?"

He pulls his collar up against the winter weather as the light changes and she takes a purposeful stride across the intersection.

"You forgot attractive," she mentions, once he catches up. "Lots of people find him attractive. His abs have their own channel."

Her small smile digs under his skin, the words pointed enough to poke deeper than he'd like to admit.

"He stole my recipes," he stops, looking down the sidewalk ahead as people pass by. "They weren't just any recipes, you know. And right when he's putting together his first cookbook? Low blow, May."

She walks back towards him and leans close. "You should march into his fancy soundstage and punch him out. They can call you Iron Fist Chef."

"Really?" He looks pained, as his head jerks backwards at the suggestion. "You always resort to violence."

"Violence has solved a lot of problems for me."

"I'm sure," he says, rolling his eyes, resuming their walk.

"There's all kinds of violence, Phil. But, because I know you're more a lover than a fighter...."

"I'm taking that as a compliment," he sniffs.

"Here," she says, finishing her digging, taking out a card from her wallet. "I've used them before. When we had a big libel case. Remember when that dirtbag who ran for office tried to bury our unauthorized biography?"

He takes the card., hesitantly.

"We buried him first," she finishes.

"Brutal," he says as he takes it. Just the initials R.T. and a phone number on the cheap printed card.

"Alexander Pierce," she reminisces. "Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy."

She looks pleased at the memory, and waves goodbye as she ends their monthly lunch meetup and heads into her publishers offices.

 

##

He stares at the number off and on for the rest of the day before he finally dials it.

Puts in a few hours at the studio.

The coffee shop. Twice. Bad habit.

Dry cleaning at the end of the day.

And...home.

It rings a few times, and just before he's about to give up, a voice comes on the line.

"Phil Coulson."

"You know my name?" he murmurs a moment later. He's already worried where this is headed. Nothing worse than a parking ticket, and-

"We're good. That's why you called."

He can't really pin her down by her voice, but she sounds confident, he thinks, as he sits on his well-worn leather couch.

"Okay, so how does this-?"

"Bar. Tonight. Corner of 18th and Connecticut. 7 PM."

"I'm just trying to get back some personal files, not take down an international spy ring."

"You have a very active imagination, and...I'm about to hang up."

"No, no! Let's meet. Just like you said." He pauses. "How did you know I'm not busy? I could've been-"

"Oh, I know. "

She hangs up as he sets his phone down on the coffee table and stares at it.

It's just...

There's something about the sound of her voice.

 

##

He's heard a lot of voices.

Leaving his job at the National Archives to go work with Nick on public radio. Somehow his passion for research found an outlet in the history of American cooking.

Generational recipes, telling stories about the way food is so connected to family and memories.

And cultures.

And now, his collection has disappeared with his hard drive.

The only reason he has a suspect is because the smug bastard couldn't help but twist the knife about it.

All because he wouldn't give him access. To his life's work. It started as a hobby at the archives.

He takes another sip of the serviceable whiskey and thinks about the irony of this happening all over again.

Stolen food, history erased, another smiling white guy selling a book of other people's stories as his own.

His phone rings just as he sits at the bar, and he's so nervous, he almost drops it before he manages to answer.

"Change of plans," she says.

"A what of what?"

"Exit the bar," she commands. He huffs, but does as he's told.

"Right. Head north for two blocks. Now right."

He's guided and focused, then lifts his head at the words: "Here."

It's a kosher deli. The kind his mother used to go to.

This is just getting stranger...

"At the meat counter."

Walking inside he straightens his collar for some reason, and passes the few people still inside.

There's a busy woman standing at the counter, and he sizes her up as she talks into her phone, and directs the butcher then turns and stares as the white wrapped package is placed in her free hand.

"Can I help you?"

It's not the right voice.

"'I'm next?" he tells her. As she brushes past him, he starts searching the shop.

"Sorry I'm late."

Her hands wrap around his arm on his other side, and he finds himself turning all the way in a circle to look at her.

"Hey," she says, trying to get in front of him going the opposite way.

"Hey yourself," he says back when they finally both end up in front of each other.

She's younger than he expected. Beautiful, in a way he's not really sure he knows how to put to-

"So what's for dinner?"

"Dinner?" he repeats, doubtfully.

"Something you know by heart."

 

##

"This isn't what I was expecting," he tells her, as he drains the egg noodles in his sink.

"You mean my age," she shoots back, with a touch of bitterness.

"No, I mean making you dinner. One of my mom's favorites, and we don't even know each other."

She nods at his small smile and leans forward to look over the side of the bowl on the counter in front of her.

"I know you have a radio show."

"You probably know what kind of toothpaste I use," he admits, taking hold of the bowl and dumping the ingredients into the sauce pan with the noodles.

"Not on the first date, Phil."

He gives her a puzzled look, and tries not to blush. Because, yes, it's the first thing he thought, and no, this isn't that.

"I'm kidding," she hand waves him. "I just wanted to see how much this meant to you. Because, you have no money."

"That's not true," he lies as he stirs. Mostly. He has his car, and his parent's house back in Wisconsin.

"I want those recipes back," he says, serious. "I'm prepared to give up some assets to get them-"

"Yeah, it's personal."

"Not just that,' he slips the noodles into the baking dish, then tosses it in the oven, and takes the mitt off, resting his elbows against the counter.

"These recipes represent generations of people that have been stolen from, literally. Culturally."

"So it's justice then?

"Yes. And the chance to damage the only thing Ward cares about. His reputation."

"That's something worth celebrating," she answers, taking the wine from him to finish getting the cork out.

"You know him?" he asks as he pours.

"He called into your show. He telegraphed exactly what he was going to do."

"You listen to my show?" It surprises him, but also, a piece slips into place. Her voice.

"I have. You've got a lot of...heart. I like that."

"Do you cook?" he asks, hoping she'll admit that she's called in. That they've already met.

"Oh, oh, _no_. No," she makes it clear with her hands in the air. "Not a family thing, like you."

He sets the timer on the stove, then takes the bottle of wine and gestures towards the table.

She smiles shyly at him, then sits down on the couch instead, and lifts her eyes to his.

"Tell me about your family."

 

##

  
After the conversation, and the cookies and the coffee, she sets her napkin down on her plate.

"This was delicious, Phil," she sighs, and leans back into the couch with a happy moan, then looks slyly over at him.

"By the way, I have the perfect plan."

"That fast, huh?" he says skeptically, a little slow after too much wine and food.

"You set me up as your protégée and he'll try to steal me out from under you."

"From _under_ me?" She watches his eyebrows rise.

"Literally and figuratively?" she laughs, kicking at his ankle with her foot.

"I was speaking figuratively," he frowns.

"I can tell," she says, sitting back up straight. "But Ward might be more interested if..."

"You're right," he admits with a sigh. "And you're beautiful, he won't be able to stand the thought that a guy like me-"

"What's wrong with you?"

He gives her a deadpan look. "I'm not well connected."

She just shrugs and stands up with her plate and reaches for his.

"When do we get started?" he breathes out, and hands his off to her.

"In a few days. I need to wrap up some stuff. And I need a place to crash."

"Here?" he complains, rising to follow her. "I just have the couch, but you can have-"

"Like, a stipend, Phil. To set me up?"

She puts the dishes in the sink, then turns back around to him.

"Oh, sure," he agrees, setting in motion to get out his wallet, making a guilty face. "I have $20 after buying dinner?"

"Later." She cuts him off, moving towards the door and hefts her backpack on. "Thanks, anyway. For dinner."

"No, " he says, following her to the door. "I want you. I mean, to hire you."

He gets it open for her as she leans against the doorframe, watching him.

"I meant we'll figure it out later, Phil. I'm all yours."

 

  
##

Skye, if that's even her real name, is a fast student.

Of just about everything, he supposes.

He notices that she wears the same clothes after a few days, and wonders where she really was before this.

He's a student of history himself. Making a habit of studying people and their voices, to draw out important things from them when they talk to him. To know when to back off, when the conversation is about to get wings.

"You never told me about your family," he asks that afternoon, as he's teaching her cutting techniques and the basics for mirepoix.

"I'm trying to get these all perfectly even, so don't distract me, Coulson."

He's given up trying to get her to call him Phil now that he's in charge in the kitchen.

Strangely, it somehow seems even more intimate.

"Are you from around here?" he asks, knowing already the answer is no.

"I'm from lots of places," she smiles curtly, in a way that tells him back off. "I grew up in Hell's Kitchen, though. How about you?"

"Wisconsin, a small town. You never would've heard of it."

She's actually being too perfectionist about this, but he's not going stop her now. She'll figure it out. After trying it on her own a few times.

"Was your mom Jewish?" she asks him, pushing the cutting board with the ingredients towards him.

"Yeah, how did you know? The show?" He sighs in approval at the neat little dice of carrots, onion and celery.

"That recipe you made when we first met. I've had it before."

"Are you-?"

"No," she cuts in. "I'm still trying to figure that one out."

She looks away nervously, and he thinks about his old job, that maybe they could look through records-

"Are you going to teach me hacking?" he asks instead, to keep the conversation up in the air.

"Hacktivism," she corrects him, as she gets started on heating the pan to sweat the vegetables. "But, you'd probably like it."

"I might," he says with a soft smile as he watches her work.

It feels like the moment where they take off.

 

  
##

"Two tickets," she smiles, waving her phone in front of him.

"To what?" he asks, then lets her put the bagel in his mouth and hands him first one coffee and then another.

She puts the phone into her pocket, and the paper into the front zipper of her backpack, then takes a cup, removes the bagel.

"Ward's show," she says, taking a bite.

"What?!"

"We have to meet some time," she goes on, as they start to walk again. "Besides, he invaded your space, you should return the favor."

"It's just, I can't even stand to look at the guy," he admits. "Something about him...I just picture poop, with knives sticking out of it."

"Really expensive knives?" she teases, as he rolls his eyes. "Look. Anyone who names their show 'Eye Candy' is winning at loser, right?"

"You didn't pay for those, did you?" he says, looking at the bagel with the bites out of it she's handing back to him.

"Of course not, it's a taping, they're free. I just got us to the front of the list."

"His book is going to go to print soon, according to my inside source."

"You have an inside source?" she turns, surprised. "Are you holding out on me?"

"I'm not without means," he says, stepping towards her, swallowing down the bagel, then taking a long sip of his coffee.

"That poop joke Is pretty good," she says while trying to hide her approval. "You should put that in your foreword."

"It's actually not mine, it's his ex-agent, Hill's. I can't take credit. But, wait...foreword?"

"You're going to publish your own book, right?" she shrugs and sips on her coffee, taking the steps to the subway. "Don't you want to make a difference?"

"Yeah, sure," he nods. "That's what I thought I was doing."

"Think BIG, Coulson."

"I'm thinking," he says, getting lost in his own thoughts for a moment.

"Bigger," she adds, nudging her shoulder against his.

 

  
##

" _The_ Grant Ward," she says, sounding so impressed that he feels a tinge of worry.

"When I heard Coulson had someone studying under him...," the man says, covering his perfect teeth with a false sense of modesty. "Well..."

"I'm not what you expected?" she asks, with a tilt of her head. "You totally have a YouTube channel for your abs, right?" 

"No," he shakes his, and flexes as he chuckles, "I mean, yes, I do. But it's so shallow don't you think?"

He brushes away the fussing of his technical director, whose chair behind the taping line Phil notices says "Fitz".

They're trying to light him before the next segment, but he's not focused on that.

It's her, of course. Just like they planned. Just like she knew that once he saw them together, he would pick her out of the crowd.

"Why?" she asks, sounding naive and overly eager to hear his reason.

"Enough about me. What's your story? I'm sure you have a grandmother you can learn those recipes from," he says, as the corner of his eyes crinkle, but don't seem to smile with the rest of his face.

"Actually," she admits, turning back to Phil. "That's why I was interested, at first. His work at the National Archives."

Ward's eyes look between them, trying to make the connection.

"Does cooking run in your family?"

"Oh, no," she says, shrugging her shoulders and blinking her eyes at him. "I was just researching my family history and stumbled across his radio show. What are the chances?"

"Oh," he nods, pointing at her, then looking at Phil. "You're helping her figure that out."

"Yes," Coulson answers, with a thin smile, gripping his hands together in front of him. "That's how we met."

"It turns out we both love the raw _passion_ that cooking brings out in people," she says sincerely. Intensely.

Damn, Phil thinks. She's really selling this.

"Is that so?" Ward asks with a smirk, meeting her eyes, and looking at Coulson's over her shoulder.

"All of the heart, the sweat, the blood, the _emotions_ , put into something set on a table, to be slowly savored? How can you pass that up?"

"That's," he grins at her. "Very inspiring."

"Yeah. I think so, too."

Phil thinks he'd like to barf.

 

  
##

"Just tell me the truth," he asks her, when they're back at his apartment. "Did you find me because of my background at the National-"

"Yes," she nods, while interrupting. "And Ward has already added me to his Snapchat."

"Why?" he asks, ignoring her distraction, stopping her at the front door, before letting her in.

"Because we can help each other." She hides her face for a moment, then looks back up at him. "We're helping each other."

"Why don't you at least tell me what it is you're after?"

"You have something I want," she shrugs. "I could've tried taking it from you. I called into your show instead."

He bites his lower lip, then steps back and opens the door so that she can come in.

"And you know that none of those things belong to you," she goes on, dropping her backpack to his floor. "Which is what makes you different."

He closes the door after her, and locks it.

"It was one you described, about three months ago. Black bean sauce?" she tells him turning over her shoulder, and he can see the happiness and sadness mixed there. "Did you ever make it?"

"No," he admits, recalling the recipe immediately, the way that it had been written on the document he'd seen. "It had a lot of feeling."

He remembers the handwriting, May translating for him like a drill sergeant, saying "Fresh! Fresh! Always fresh!"

"I know," she agrees, walking back towards him, drawing him again into their moment. "That's when I knew."

Her hand slides down the cuff of his jacket, then her fingers lightly touch his.

"That we were the same," he finishes for her.

"Yes."

Her phone buzzes again, and she looks down at it. "I should go. Wish me luck."

He must've invited her out, for drinks. It's late.

"it's late," he mentions. "If you need anything, you know where to find me."

"Thanks, Coulson."

She leans forward and hesitates, then smiles up at him and puts her hand on the door handle.

Reaching in his pocket he takes the keys out and hands them to her.

"Take her," he smiles. "Let me know the look on his face when he sees you behind the wheel, okay?"

"Her?" she grins.

"Lola," he smiles.

"Lola," she repeats, and then stares back at him for too long, so that he lightly takes her by the wrist and turns it over to put the keys in her palm.

When her phone buzzes again, he closes her fingers over them, and she parts her lips like she's about to speak.

Then, she changes her mind, and opens the door to leave.

  
##

  
He falls asleep on the couch and only wakes up again when he hears the keys turn and his front door slam shut.

"Skye?" he asks, sitting up quickly, as he sees her leaning against the door, with a rakish smile on her face, her hair and clothing dripping water onto his worn wood floors.

"Daisy," she breathes out. "My name is Daisy Johnson."

This should bother him. It doesn't, at all.

Instead he stands up and pulls the warm wool throw after him and brings it over to her and lets her step into it before he wraps it around her shoulders.

"Daisy," he repeats.

She laughs and reaches into the vee of her shirt and pulls a flash drive out from inside her bra.

"Is that?" he asks, as his smile grows larger, and she laughs again.

"Yes," she nods. "I did something really, really stupid."

He wants to hear, but it's cold and the old apartment building's heating isn't that great in the wintertime.

Her nervous laugh makes him rub his hands along her arms to warm her, and he hears her teeth chatter.

"How about a coffee, and some dry clothes, and you can tell me?"

"I challenged him to a cooking contest, Coulson."

Now it's his turn to laugh. "Really?"

She puts the flash drive in his front shirt pocket and pats it.

"Will you help me?"

 

##

The story is even more wild than he guessed.

Of course, he's on his second Irish coffee (made with real cream and brown sugar) and somehow she's convinced him to join her in the bathroom while she warms up in the tub.

He sits down on the toilet, and hands her drink over to her.

She's talking very animatedly, blanketed by a frankly, enormous amount of bubbles, and even through the buzz he starts to think that something is off.

"You didn't tell me how you ended up soaked to the bone," he says, setting his drink on the bathroom countertop.

"I jumped into his swimming pool," she says, blinking up at him. "To get away."

A chill runs down his spine. Her story had been about them at the bar up until this point.

"At his house?" he asks.

"Yeah, of course. That was the fastest way to get access to the hard drive. He kept your hard drive."

"You got away safe , though. In Lola. Did he follow you?"

"I'm sorry," she apologizes, as it sinks in. "I promise I'll make sure Lola's taken care of-"

"That's not what I meant," he interrupts. "Did he hurt you?" he swallows. Nothing that he wanted would've been worth that.

"No," she shakes her head. "He just....kept trying to touch me. He said that we were the same."

"I'm just glad you're safe," he tells her, closing his eyes. He's heard about Ward's childhood, and how he uses it to sell himself as some self-made man.

"You're going to help me, right?"

"We'll get him," he promises, opening his eyes to look at her again. "Does he know you have the-"

"No," she shakes her head. "He still has it, I only made a copy. But we can release them online before he can publish-"

"I might have another way," says, standing up and digging out his phone.

 

  
##

He turns while he's looking through the files on his computer, and watches her sleeping, curled up in his robe, in his bed.

Daisy Johnson.

The recipes are indexed and it only takes him a moment to find the one he's looking for. The name under it says, "Jiaying Johnson."

There's a story there. _Her_ story.

He's not sure who helped Ward take his hard drive in the first place. Garrett, last fall when he had him over to catch up for old times' sake? Ever since Nick had fired him from the station for misconduct, it was like he became another man.

But he can't say for certain.

"Alexander Pierce had my mother deported, when I was...very young. She was a political reporter, at a vulnerable moment."

She was so quiet, he didn't hear her come up behind him while he was reading.

There's no place for her to sit, so she leans against the desk and looks down at his laptop.

"My father went looking for her, and never came back," she leans forward to look at the screen as if she's asking permission, and he turns it for her. "I don't even remember what they looked like."

"I'm so sorry," he tells her. "This must stir up so many things for you."

"They placed me at an orphanage. I've found little bits and pieces," she adds, as she runs her finger over the words on the screen. "This is one of them."

"The recipe was from a cookbook, the Hunan province," he tells her. The political angle of it had intrigued him.

"And guess who used their muscle to help Grant Ward get his show? He's really politically connected, you know?"

He nods. He does know.

"So, as you can see," she says, dragging her eyes away from the screen. "It's personal."

"I know where we can find the original," he mentions, shutting the laptop shut. "Do you speak-?"

"No," she shakes her head.

"I know a really good translator. We can kill two birds with one stone."

 

  
##

"Do you know how much I hate Alexander Pierce?"

Coulson watches her work on her tai chi as she pretends that other than his voice, he's not present in her world at the moment.

"Yes, which is why I'm here."

"I hate Alexander Pierce, too," Daisy says, waving her hand in front of May, and tries not to look around at the other people in the studio.

"And you are?"

"Daisy Johnson," she says, following May's head as she turns it in a stretch. "This is the angle you've been looking for, right? He can provide the recipe book, I can write the expose, you can publish-"

May doesn't look impressed. "Coulson doesn't even use twitter."

"I can help him," Daisy promises, as Coulson rolls his eyes. "And I need you to translate for me."

She holds her hand out, the Chinese characters on the paper catching her eye.

May takes it curiously, and starts to read it, then smiles. "Black bean sauce? You're going to destroy Ward with this?"

"It belonged to my mother, she was from Hunan, but, I-"

"Okay," she says, giving them her full attention. "I'm in. Because, you can't mess this up.  Haven't I seen this before?"

"Haven't you made it before?" Coulson asks, looking very skeptical.

"What do you think?" May rolls her eyes at him. "My grandmother did, and I remember what it tastes like."

"Great!" Daisy says, turning away from her to take a call coming in. "Just be a sec."

"Can she cook?" May whispers to Coulson.

"She's a quick study," he replies, watching her talk animatedly into her phone.

"If she loses, this will ruin you, you know that, right?"

"She won't lose," he says confidently. "You're going to help her, aren't you?"

"Good point."

 

  
##

"There was an exodus of Hunan chefs to Taiwan," he mentions as he sits at the counter.

"My mother came to the US in the 70s, so that would be about right," she says, finishing chopping some ginger, and getting the tofu cut into cubes.

"Tofu?" he asks, a bit curious and props his head on his hand.

"I'm starting with tofu, until I get the sauce just right. Then, I'll start to get adventurous."

"You didn't cook much before this, why not?"

She pauses for a moment, and sets the knife down. "I've been living out of a van."

"That explains a few things." He links his fingers together, and rolls his thumbs around until she picks up the knife again.

"And you've been staying in a hotel since I've been paying-"

"No." Her voice is concentrating on the task in front of her, and he's being distracting, annoying.

It's not like he has any right to know where she spends her nights.

"Well you can stay here," he tells her, as he picks up his laundry basket from where he left it beside the counter. "I'm used to falling asleep on the couch."

"May coming over soon?" she replies and starts to heat up the cheap wok.

"Yeah," he tells her, glancing up at the wall clock. "She's a tough customer."

"That's what I'm hoping." She adds oil to the wok and swirls it around, just like she watched in the instructional videos.

"I got almost all of the ingredients you asked for at the farmer's market. _Very_ fresh."

"They're not the only thing that's fresh," she teases, trying to look cool by swirling the pan. It slips and he sees the splash of oil as the fire starts to spread.

He manages to reach into the cabinet in a rush and get out the baking soda and douse it, coating the kitchen in a thin white dust.

"I'm sorry," she starts, agitated and trying to clean. "I should've taken it more seriously."

He holds her eyes for a moment, and she straightens and bumps back against the stove, like she's afraid.

"It's okay. Just start over."

 

  
##

It's not that she's discouraged, he thinks, it's just...May doesn't pull punches.

Ward called into his show again, and brought up the contest, and then Daisy called in, and he had to play referee for awhile.

She's good at talking the talk, even if she's not feeling it.

When he gets home that afternoon, she's already there, pulling out all the ingredients to get started.

"Hi," he tosses out, and sees her frowning in concentration as she measures.

"I've been hanging out at the street vendors today, watching, you know?"

He has to admire how she's throwing herself completely into this.

"I've got another idea," he tells her, leaning up against the counter. "Want to go out for dinner?"

"I need to practice, Coulson," she eyes him, like she's not in the mood.

"This is a field trip," he smiles at her, "My treat."

He takes her coat from the hook near the door, and she concedes and lets him help her into it, then they head out the door into the night spring air.

She's quiet during the drive, past the row of cherry blossom trees, and when they pull up to the restaurant she looks him over.

"Is this a date?"

"No," he answers, and opens his driver's side door.

He waits for her then walks beside her to the restaurant, and talks to the front to get a table next to the open kitchen.

"It's fusion," he says, as he starts to look over the menu once they're seated. "The cooking techniques are similar."

She's staring at him over the top of the menu, but he just continues to read down the list.

"You should watch," he points out, as she takes her eyes off of him and stares into the kitchen at the cooks.

Then it's his turn to watch, as she carefully studies the busy line.

 

  
##

"Are you ready?" he asks her, as she stands in the television battle kitchen in her apron.

Ward is wearing a chef's uniform, of course, with the logo from his formal school emblazoned on it as a reminder.

She's just wearing jeans, a denim shirt, and a determined expression under the hot lights.

"I guess I have to be," she says, sounding focused as ever, as he gives her arm a squeeze, and an encouraging smile before he goes to sit in the spectator seats.

It all starts off with a bang, and at least she's not alone.

There are a couple of guys that she picked up along the way from the fusion restaurant they'd visited weeks ago.

Mack's a giant in the kitchen, but an artist at all the mechanics, like the chopping and prep work.

Joey is always one step behind her, finishing off everything she begins as she advances to the next step.

Ward's mistake, always his mistake, is going it alone. Trying to prove to everyone he's everything that's needed. Barking orders and stepping on toes, and he wonders when was the last time Ward was really in a kitchen.

He has to admit, he loves watching him have to sweat for once.

She makes the black bean paste all alone, though, thinking through it carefully, talking to herself.

Singing, actually. The song she remembers her mother singing over her as a child. But no one will know that, except for the two of them.

And of course Ward makes something from his stolen recipes, but with his own twist.

"He's really using too much oil," May leans over and narrates to him.

"Good," Coulson says with a frown, watching Ward walk over to Daisy, and say something to her.

He can't make it out, but he can see her face start to fall.

"You've got this," he stands up, yelling, with his hands cupped around his mouth.

The judges and announcers turn to stare at him and he smirks, nervously, and starts to sit down, hoping he didn't embarrass her.

But Daisy is smiling, beaming, at him.

She gets back to work, as Mack starts pulling out the plates and she takes her bowl of paste with her and heads to the wok.

The commentator notes that the quail eggs Ward has boiled aren't shedding their shells.

He throws the pan loudly into the sink, and then tells his assistant to start over again.

The mask is slipping, and Daisy only gets more calm, more focused.

 

  
##

  
It all happened on a Friday night.

Daisy wins.

With tofu.

It turns out, heart does matter. And all of Ward's training and special techniques don't pay him forward.

Daisy cries later in his arms, when they're finally alone, talking about her mother and all of the things she's missed out on.

And despite that she's an overnight sensation, that the offers come pouring in, she becomes suddenly camera shy.

Their cookbook is published, celebratory, and then she tells him she needs a break.

He does the talk show circuit and late night tv alone. And everyone wants to know where she is.

A month later, she calls into his radio show to share a Hunan recipe. Whole fish with chilis and black beans.

She doesn't say it's her, but he knows, and then other people do, too, because the tabloids contact him.

The attention ends up swamping him, and he needs to keep his focus where it belongs: on all the people coming forward to share their stories in the book.

With the scholarship fund from the sales, he manages to use the small amount of money from his appearances to hire a PR manager.

Another person with a lot of heart, quick on her feet, and Elena allows him step back and breathe again. No more time spent on twitter.

Still, as busy as he is, he thinks about her.

Every damn day.

Her voice, and her eyes, and the way she listened so intently. How they realized they felt their safest together.

It's the first day of autumn and a familiar chill is in the air.

It's been a long summer, and he's been aching for a cool breeze.

He hangs up on the phone with Elena to dig his keys out of his pocket, when the smell of something wonderful hits him as he opens the front door.

"You're late," she says.

It's like his heart has fallen into his socks.

He knew it was love.

Not spontaneously, but instantly.

Like he'd been waiting for her all his life.

Maybe it was her voice that made him feel connected. He's not sure.

It was just one of those things that was never asked, never expected.

It just was.

"Sorry," he tells her, hanging up his jacket, noticing hers already there.

"What are we having for dinner?"

 

##

  
He doesn't ask if she wants to stay. He stopped trying to do that.

Instead he puts on some music, and starts to run the water in the sink, do the dishes, when she wraps her arms around him from behind.

He doesn't have to tell her how much he's missed her, either.

They've been saying it to each other all along. Between conversation and stares, and long silences while they've caught up like old friends.

Her hands thread into his, and he lets her help him rinse a few of the plates, and then turns over his shoulder to see her, impatient, and feeling fuller than he's ever remembered.

"I'm still here, Coulson," she teases, with her chin on his shoulder, as he twists in her arms to put his soapy fingers against her face.

"You never went away."

Her eyes shine up at his, and she seems like she might have something more to say.

It arrives as a kiss.

At first, apologetic, like it has regret in it, like it needs permission.

Until he steps closer and answers it, without any regret at all.

It only surprises her for a moment, and then she's pushing him back against the edge of the sink, her wet hands on the front of his shirt.

He's not sure he ever dreamed of kissing her, really.

More like, he thought about her being with him, always. This is just another way for them to connect.

And they do connect. That was never even the question around them.

But they connect. And connect. And he wants even more, as he feels her fingers against the damp fabric clinging to his skin.

They stop for a moment to reverberate, their heartbeats pressing together, his hands in her hair.

They're both kind of a mess.

"I've never done this in the kitchen," he tells her, catching his breath, as he presses his lips to her temple.

"Me neither," she laughs. "I've never had a kitchen."

She pulls away, takes his hand to make him follow.

There are so many different ways to love someone, he thinks.

If you only get the chance.

He wants to know them all.

**Author's Note:**

> I did some research on this about the Hunan recipes and history of Americanizing Chinese immigrant cuisine, pretty interesting!


End file.
